(Sharing hot chocolate in a tumbler on a rainy drive to take me home. The little things of perfection.)
I love him like a fierce hurricane even with our little, almost nothing touches.
Touching is always so important to me and my meager words aren’t enough to explain it. I open my mouth and the words tumble out carelessly and awkwardly; I am not adept and sometimes words lose their meaning with me when I speak. Writing comforts me more, although it is indeed difficult to pull apart that feeling of the moment into words.
This is something I’ll live for: tangled hair, his eyes, fingers against his shoulder and the small sparks in between touches—that unbearable tenderness far beyond anything someone has shown me in a lifetime. I couldn’t explain it, but I need it. Hundreds and thousands of fingers and skin brushing against each other is enough to make me feel that I’m swallowed whole, the way it feels that I could disappear for a day in that safe space in between his arms. It also feels the same way when you have someone’s hand to hold and someone go for ice cream with you when the hiccups from the crying stop. I didn’t even think that such a delicate, soft tone was allowed in this world.
Vivid warmth and encompassing contentment—this is what it means to be happy.
(You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.)
I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.
(And I never want to be without you.)